As a little girl, like tons of other little girls then and now, I dreamed of getting married. It wasn't just the dress, the flowers, the music, the people. I wanted the love. You know the kind; that dreamy sort of love that all the pop songs are written about. Mariah Carey's Vision of Love; that's what I wanted. But of course, being the awkward curly haired mess that I was (and still am some of the time) it just didn't happen. As a teenager, I was the popular topic of many a rumor but my imaginary life was much more exciting than my real one. I can honestly say I never once got asked to a school dance. Not even once. I always went with friends of friends or, like at my senior prom, I went with my friend's little brother. Yup, that was my life. In college, I didn't fair much better but I tried. My one gift when it came to relationships was trying to make one where one wasn't. I was always "the friend." You know, the kind with benefits who wasn't a girlfriend and would never get introduced to the friends or the parents but was around to hang out with and take advantage of. This never went well for me as it doesn't in many situations but the pattern was hard to break. Until junior year of college when I was taking a creative writing class. Creative writing classes are notoriously touchy feely and it can be a little uncomfortable for someone who avoids eye contact and talking about my life in front of strangers (me) but I did it anyway. It was credit for my major and it was relatively easy. When our professor made us set up the chairs in the classroom so that we were all facing each other in a makeshift circle, I was seated directly across from the most friendly face that I had ever seen in my life. I should mention, my chronic resting bitch face is not a recent condition. I've had it since I was little. Because of this I was particularly nervous about the friendly face before me but he didn't seem to care that I always looked like I was about to stab someone or that I rolled my eyes without noticing it sometimes. He smiled at me anyway. With his whole face. Eyes, mouth, cheeks, he almost seemed to exude happy and it was magnetic. It took almost the entire semester before we actually talked to each other and to be honest, I'm not sure who called whom or how it all went down but he invited me over to his apartment and from that day forward, I only went home when I absolutely had to. I had found it. Mariah Carey's vision and mine. Love. For the first time in my life, I was the best version of myself and someone really loved me for me. I didn't have to hide or fake it. I didn't have to run away before his friends showed up or stay quiet when his mom called. He loved me and he was proud of me and we were happy. And it lasted all of 8 weeks. I would like to tell you that we broke up, that the bubble burst. That he cheated on me. But that's not what happened. What happened was that he died. He died and he left me alone and I went from being the happiest that I'd ever been in my life to feeling the kind of grief that makes you feel like you're being buried alive. It was another major blow in my life that year. Having had an abortion and ending a relationship with someone who loved me but wasn't in love with me, I was already grieving when he came into my life and brought me to life and now I was grieving his death and my death and the death of any hope that I'd had that things were going to be ok for me, that I was going to be ok. That dreams do come true and love exists.

I'd like to say that in the 11 years that have passed, that I've found love again and love reigns supreme once more. And that's true in a way. I've never felt more perfect or terrifying love than I have for my children. When I see them, I see love. But I also see the what ifs. What if he had lived? What if these were the kids we were meant to have together? What if we had gotten our happily ever after? I have a husband. I love my husband but not the way I loved him. Our love is heavy. We our both hardened, jaded people and we struggle. And I sometimes feel like a fraud because the memory of the man that I loved first, that I loved easily, that I loved lightly, is in my mind and in my heart every day. I wonder if my husband knows that sometimes when I look at him, I'm wishing he was someone else. I wonder if he knows that sometimes I hold him to an impossible standard. I am hoping he can't tell that I still grieve and grieve hard. And I wonder if he knows that sometimes I feel like I'm cheating on my first love. The easy love. The fairy tale love. I wonder if he knows that sometimes, when the hurt is really bad, I feel like all of this is wrong.

Grief is a work in progress. It never really goes away and it can manifest itself in so many different ways. It's been 11 years and some days it feels like a lifetime ago. Some days I can barely remember his voice and other days it's like I just saw him yesterday. And I miss him. I miss the way he brought out the best in me when so often I feel like I'm falling short. I miss the way he truly believed that I could do anything. I miss the way he was always genuinely happy to see me. I miss it all. The logical side of me is very aware that at some point it might have gone away. We would have fought. Life would have gotten in the way. We would have gotten on each other's nerves or hurt each other's feelings and maybe the honeymoon would have ended. Those things could have happened but they didn't. We had 8 weeks of love the ripples of which I will feel the rest of my life. I have a lifetime of grief ahead of me but also a lifetime of memories. A lifetime of love.